


Twist of Fate

by flikrin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Multi, Pre-Slash, dodgy child discipline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:36:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flikrin/pseuds/flikrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the supernatural roam freely and the Blood rule, Dean is nothing but a Mundane. As a blight upon society and a burden, Dean is the lowest of the low. But Dean has wings that nobody else can see and Angels visit him in his dreams. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. all stories have a seed of truth

**Author's Note:**

> For lj spn_30snapshots prompt - 15. legend

“Come on, Sammy,” Dean said, grinning. He plopped into the chair opposite Sam at their dinner table that Sam had commandeered as his study place. “Suck it up.”

Sam groaned and valiantly resisted the urge to thump his head against his textbooks. “But there’s so many,” Sam mumbled pathetically. “How come you know it so well?”

Dean picked up one musty smelling leather bound book, leafing through the pages casually. “It’s just first year stuff, elementary. Get back to cramming, squirt. I’ll quiz you later.”

Sam stared mournfully at his pile of unstudied dragon lore. “Were there really dragons?”

“You’d know if you opened your damned book,” Dean retorted. “Besides, I already told you about them before.”

Frowning, Sam sat forward in his seat, flipping through his textbook pages. “Don’t know why, but they don’t really stick. It’s like I forget the moment you finish telling me the tales.”

“Gee thanks,” Dean said sarcastically. He bit his lip and twitched his shoulder irritably. “Way to make someone feel important.”

“You know what I mean,” Sam protested.

Pausing, Dean eyed at Sam weirdly. “Not really.”

“I don’t get how you remember it all. There’s a reason why all these books exist. There’s just too many races and too many stupid rituals. But you know them all by heart.”

Dean looked at Sam, in the same infuriating ‘and so?’ expression.

Frustrated, Sam growled and pulled his textbooks closer to his chest. “Oh shut up,” Sam sulked and resigned himself to cramming ten centuries worth of Dragon, Pegasus, Titan and Mermaid Lore into his head in time for his test tomorrow.

 

*

 

Dean knew all about the legends. His Brothers and Sisters had told him, shown him the beginning of time, the ancestors of the Blood, so young, vibrant and full of wonder, and still imbued with the crackling energy of the Creator’s mark.

His parents told him tales of Creation and the origins of Blood every night before bed. The teachers flipped through story books, filled with pictures and words they read aloud.

Dean loved the stories, the ancient mythos, the very history and existence of the Blood kept alive through every word spoken, a self perpetuating spell almost. The stories told how each race came to be, even the Mundane, those without power.

The tales were words of warning, praise and teachings, superstition that should be taken literally. Never cross a black cat, they’ll curse you and haunt you for your next nine rebirths. Don’t head for the sparkling lights in the forests, the will o wisps will swallow you whole. Never ask a favour from the Fairfolk, they’ll ask for your soul and your children’s children. Don’t try to catch the sprites, they’ll bite your fingers off one by one.

Dean in turn, recited the same stories to his brother. But it was through these tales that he knew he was different. Even in a world where the supernatural roamed freely and the Blood ruled supreme, Dean was unnatural.

With parents from two of the strongest Fallen bloodlines, Dean had no power.

Dean was nothing but a Mundane.


	2. Helpless in the face of the unyielding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #14 Power

“Dean, honey, try,” Mary said.

“Try what?” Dean’s hazel eyes were huge in his freckled little face, his expression utterly baffled. She nodded to the small square block of wood on the table amidst an array of other objects.

“Move the block,” she said, then sighed. “No, not with your hands. Hands on your lap,” she said sternly and she brushed a lock of wavy blonde hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear. The bronze charm earrings she wore chimed softly and the sound soothed her agitation slightly when she felt the spelled power being released from small piece of protective jewelry along with the sound it emitted when she moved sharply.  

Tilting his head at her, Dean clasped his hands together obediently.

“Focus, Dean, I know you can do it.”

Biting his lip and hunching his shoulders before straightening resolutely, Dean went back to eyeing the block as though he were trying to burn holes through it. At this point, Mary would be grateful even for that and she returned to praying for something to happen, anything.

Dean kept staring at the block unblinkingly until Mary realised that his eyes seemed a little glazed over. Frustrated, she covered the block with her hand, startling Dean who jerked his head up. Mary’s smiled wanly, and tried to keep the strain from showing in her voice. “Let’s try something else shall we?”

Dean’s reply was tiny, “Okay.”

Mary picked up the tiny golden amulet that was one of the Campbell family’s heirlooms. “Your granddaddy wore this last. See if you can feel anything from it.” Mary’s dad had died wearing it. If Dean did pick up any residual emotions, there would only be pain, fear and anger, strong lasting emotions. Mary felt a little sorry to inflict that experience on Dean, he was only six, but she was getting desperate here.

But Dean’s expression remained blank, if slightly perplexed.

Mary just took back the small horned amulet and held Dean’s hand and asked him if he could tell what she was thinking.

They looked at each other as Mary kept her face purposely expressionless. Tell me, tell me. I love you, Dean. Tell me!

Dean shook his head and Mary withdrew her hands as though she’d been burned.

*

“How many times are you going to try this?” John asked gruffly, coming up behind her chair and settling his large hands on her shoulder. Together, they watched their two sons through the window as Sam and Dean played in the piles of leaves John had raked up this morning.

Clumsily, Sam sent a shower of leaves at Dean, his control still shaky and the dead leaves bounced off Dean harmlessly as he rolled on the grass, laughing.

“The latest any Fallen had shown signs was seven.”

“Two more years then,” John said, patting Mary’s shoulder gently and she soaked up the comfort her mate offered her.

The usual powers a Fallen had were strength, telepathy, teleportation, empathy, telekinesis and psychometry. The rarer ones were invisibility and healing. Even scarcer were foresight, precognition and dreamwalking.

Mary had already tested Dean for signs of the usual range of powers multiple times but nothing showed up. He didn’t even show a natural affinity or aptitude for any of those abilities. Most of them were instinctive, Sam had been moving the dream catcher and wind chimes above his crib since he was a newborn and amazingly, as he learned how to talk, they discovered Sam had a dual gift, also possessing foresight.

Mary didn’t even know where to begin triggering any one of those abilities in Dean. She couldn’t ask anyone in their coven, she was already using the techniques the parents of the other late bloomer used. And she didn’t dare ask anyone outside the Fallen, fear, shame and denial refused to let her entertain that option.

Dean had always been a little slow. It would be fine, Mary convinced herself. Dean would show what power he had and Mary would be so proud of him. She just knew it.


	3. You say 'believe' like it's so easy to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #09 Faith

"Castiel!" Dean exclaimed, his face breaking into a smile and his wings shivered in excitement. They were at a lake was so wide the trees on the far side looked like scrubland and they stood at the only pier visible on either side. “You haven’t come seen me in ages. You missed my ninth birthday,” he accused.

"Sorry, Dean," Castiel said. He sighed rather despondently, looking out onto the gleaming surface of the lake, withstanding the glare of the sunlight easily. “I was in training with Uriel and Balthazar.” Castiel glanced back at Dean and said a little glumly, “Anna is a hard taskmaster.”

Dean winced in sympathy. Anna had put him through the paces too when she was around. Still, he pouted a little. It really had been a long time since Cas had come. The other angels had kept him company, but it was different with Cas.

One thing had bugged Dean almost since he’d first noticed it. Sometimes it was hard to notice something that was never there in the first place, but now that Dean did, all the question did was scratch at him, relentless. “Cas,” Dean said plaintively, tilting his head at Cas. “All I see are our brothers and sisters, but where are your parents? How come I’ve never seen them?”

Castiel stared back, copying Dean’s movement and the tips of his folded wings trailed against the pier, the sleek stormy raven blue feathers passing through the wooden planks freely. “We have a Father, a shared father. But, as you know, it is the eldest of us, Michael and Sammael, who takes care of us.”

Drawing his wings closer, Dean furrowed his brow and kicked at the uneven gaps between the planks of wood. “Where’s your dad then? Why isn’t he here?” Is he anything like John? The question burned at the tip of Dean’s tongue but he swallowed it back, it was bitter as it went down.

Castiel furrowed back at Dean. “He is. Your birth in fact, shows that our Father is still here.” His expression was quizzical as he studied Dean.

Dean’s ears burned and he looked away from Cas’ intent gaze. “Me?” Dean whispered incredulously and he bit his lip, knowing just how inadequate he was. “I’m just Dean.”

“You’re so much more than that. But yes, you are Dean,” Castiel’s voice was gentle, if slightly bewildered and the wooden planks creaked as he came closer. “You’re the hope of us, proof that potential still exists. Anna told you didn’t she?”

Keeping his eyes resolutely affixed beyond Castiel on the pebbly banks of the lake, Dean shrunk in on himself. Castiel touched his shoulder, just the light brush of fingertips against the thick fabric of his jacket. The lakeshore breeze was cold, so Dean shivered, leaning into the touch.

Castiel’s expression softened slightly, but his tone was firm, “Angels are forever unchanging, no Angels have been created since the start of time. And yet here you are, it’s a miracle, Dean.”

“You’re wrong,” Dean said, feeling nauseous and he jerked away, unable to bear the comfort Castiel offered him anymore. The knowledge was ash in his mouth. “I’m nothing but a Mundane. An unsightly smear on the good names of the family.”

“No,” Castiel hissed and Dean jolted at the sudden ferocity, staring numbly into Castiel’s blazing blue eyes. Blue like the brilliant clarity towards the center of the lake, blue like the center of a flame. “Listen to me, everything that you are came from the Creator’s will. There is no flaw in you.”

Looking into Castiel’s anxious ocean blue eyes, Dean smiled. It was one of the hardest things Dean ever did. He had to, because if he didn’t, he’d be crying instead.


	4. Take me apart, to the very marrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #12 Bones

"Dean, get up!" John barked.

"Yes, sir," Dean said and did as he was told, picking himself up from the muddied ground where their constant movement had worn great foot wide scars into the grass. His hands never unclenched around the worn wooden handle of his knife, even when John bore his foot down on his wrist until Dean could feel his bones grind together.

John eyed Dean critically, but there was something vaguely proud in his expression.

Already pink-faced with exertion and standing under the sun for the past hour, Dean could feel himself even flush further with pride even though he had to transfer the knife to his left hand. He was already at a disadvantage being Mundane, so it was about time he learned how to be ambidextrous.

*

John always had to be careful with his gift, his power was his physical strength. The slightest loss of self control meant a crushed doorknob, a snapped fork, a shattered cheekbone, bruises purpling when John held Mary’s hand.

But Dean had nothing going for him, if some creature decided to attack him, his son would be utterly defenseless. And no son of John’s would be weak.

John taught him how to fight, how to be cunning, how it was better to retreat than end up as ground meat left bleeding on the ground. How to bend and not break, how to hang on by the torn edges of your fingernails and come back to live another day. He emphasized these lessons with unchecked strength whenever Dean was too slow to dodge, too stupid to think two to three steps ahead of his opponent or too arrogant to run.

For every drop of sweat now, it meant one less drop of blood later. So John didn’t quibble about a broken bone now and again. These translated to vigorous training sessions, mile-long runs every morning to build up stamina and speed. Dean had plenty of time to do this since he wasn’t going to school, Mundanes weren’t allowed to mix with the Blood.

If Mary disproved of this, she didn’t say anything, just patched Dean up. Only if the injury was too severe did they take Dean to a healer. As for Dean, he just bore through the tough love, rolling with the punches and did everything John asked, with a grim kind of determination burning in his eyes that John heartily approved of.

And so Dean grew up hard, lean and fast.


	5. Tread softly for you tread on my dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #03 Ritual, hc bingo fill - family, au bingo fill - demons/angel
> 
> Warning: mention of medicating/drugging a minor without their consent, even though it was by their parents :\

“Finish your brew, Dean. There’s a good boy.”  
  
Dean set his cup on the bed side table and tried not to make a face at the foul taste. No matter how many times he drank it, he never got used it. Every night now, he had to drink it and he had no one to blame but himself.   
  
He’d been too stupid and careless and had told John and Mary all about his dreams and the wings he had, instead of possessing a power like any normal Fallen would. What followed after were days filled with tense silences alternating with increasingly sharp questions. And like the idiot Dean was, he answered truthfully each time they asked.   
  
John and Mary just looked at him, disappointment clinging thickly to them until John lost his temper, shouted at him, broke the door to Dean’s bedroom and also the table before Mary took him away to cool off.  
  
They told him they didn’t care Dean didn’t have powers (oh but they did) and that he should stop lying. That they wouldn’t abide by this sort of behaviour. Lying was wrong and it would be punished.   
  
Dean said, “Every night.”  
  
Then they withheld dessert, pies that he could smell and see and pie that Sammy could eat. They made him kneel on twigs and branches for an hour and asked him again.   
  
Dean said, “They’re still there.”  
  
They moved onto Mary striking Dean’s hands with a rod with John counting the strokes because John wouldn’t be able to control his strength, not now. After each ten set, John asked again.  
  
Dean’s answer remained the same.  
  
Finally, they retreated, leaving him alone but still asking.  
  
“Yes,” Dean said.  
  
Then Dean woke up after eating dinner with no memory of going to bed but with the brightness of his brothers and sisters still shining vividly behind his eyelids.  
  
“Are you still dreaming about them?” Mary asked anxiously, seated on the edge of Dean’s bed, John an imposing shadow over her shoulder.  
  
“No,” Dean said and he stretched his wings so that they brushed Mary’s knee. As always, they passed through her as if they really were imaginary. His eyes stung. “They’re gone.”  
  
Mary had hugged him, relieved.   
  
And every night after that, he had to drink this formula Mary had found. He’d also earned a place of suffering in eternal torment with the amount of lies he told by now, tripping off his tongue quick and easy.   
  
Dean found they left a fouler aftertaste than the brew though.  
  
Mary smiled at him as Dean obediently slid under the covers and she tucked the edges around him securely. “Are you still having those dreams?”  
  
Yes. “No,” Dean said.  
  
“Oh honey, you know they aren’t real,” she murmured.   
  
“I know,” Dean said, and his wings shifted, incorporeal to everything but him, slid through the mattress and the tips brushing the carpeted floor before he brought them close to him.  
  
She kissed his forehead, mussing up his hair, stroking them with the pads of her fingers.   
  
I’m not a liar, Dean mouthed into the curtain of blonde hair that fell across his face, his lips barely moving. Why would I be jealous of Sammy? He’s my brother. I’m not making any of this up. Why can’t anyone see my wings? Why don’t I have powers? Why won’t you believe me?  
  
Mary blinked. “Did you say something, sweetheart?”  
  
Dean shook his head and smiled tiredly, “Goodnight, mom.”  
  
“Sweet dreams, Dean. But no angels okay?”  
  
“Yes, mom.”  
  
Mary left as the spelled brew dragged Dean down into sleep, spelled to keep him dreamless. Dean just wanted to see his other family that only visited when he slept.


	6. Songs of our discord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Spn_30snapshots #22 Angels

It took a long time for Dean to respond to his name and even longer to learn how to speak the Common language. It puzzled Mary and John, made them think Dean was a little slow, not quite right in the head. 

It was one of the first disappointments of many they found in Dean. But they were patient, slowly weaning him from the rough almost guttural sounds he uttered with frustration and confusion on his young face.

What they didn’t know was that Angels had been visiting Dean in his sleep, teaching and communicating with him in the language of Angels, an ancient powerful language that most of the Blood had long since forgotten.


	7. Perchance to sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #23 Life

Dean knew he was abnormal, but he suspected that none of the other Mundanes ever considered their bodies as an inconvenient shell for their consciousness.   
  
With every blink of his eyes, Dean was reminded of the bright white light that pulsed behind his eyelids, how confining his body was and how his skin felt too tight. Every breath Dean took was difficult, as though a great weight lay on his ribs.  
  
There was also the fact that Dean did not sleep, not truly. Neither did he dream. It was difficult to explain but it was as though Dean left his slumbering body from the moment he closed his eyes.  
  
Every night Dean would close his eyes, snug beneath his thick, quilted covers and he’d blink his eyes open, feeling a strange sort of distant disconnect wash over him as he stared down at his body that continued breathing easily without him. Soon enough though, Dean would turn away from his unconscious body, spread his wings and laughed with delight as he concentrated on following the shining, golden thread that connected him to each and every one of his brothers and sisters.  
  
Dean shared his time between his families equally. From dawn to dusk, Dean spent time with Mom, Dad and Sammy. And from the time Dean closed his eyes till the rays of sunrise woke him, Dean’s thousands of brothers and sisters kept him company.  
  
In Dean’s dreams, Anael took him to see where the Angels lived, where they shared space in the sky and bent reality to create a place they called home. In their journey, Anael took him along to sing with the Seraphs, joyous in their hosannas. She brought him to the Cherubim who showed him the beauty and heartache of love, of how each facet only made each feeling sharper and sweeter still. Anael took him to see the Arches who showed him the wrath and might, the glory and anguish of the warriors.  
  
And as they tiptoed along the grand hallways, high vaulted rooms and passed time lounging in the sprawling gardens filled with lush wilderness, Anael taught Dean Words of wisdom, prayers of faith and songs of praise and lost languages sung only in the voice of Angels.   
  
In the dreams where Michael was free to accompany Dean, his eldest brother took him across the universe. Michael showed Dean the breathtaking violent births of stars, taking care to shield Dean from the blinding, explosive fury of their creation with the tips of his wings and took him along to visit distant galaxies and universes where the Blood were just myth.   
  
He bent time and took him back to the days when the Earth was still young and the Angels were one, when the Fallen were not a pale, wingless imitation of the Angels’ glory, when all the Blood lived in harmony, when they were all untouched by war, suffering and hatred.  
  
It was frightening when Dean travelled with Michael. But Michael kept him safe in the shelter of his wings, huge and arching up to the sky and Dean adored Michael with all his heart.  
  
With Gabriel, Dean ate all the best food of the Blood, the sweetest delicacies. They played harmless games with the oft vicious Kelpies, sang with the wolves, forged the finest weapons with the goblins and saw grand, glittering palaces of crystal, dreams and wishes being built by the Fair Folk. It was fun, exciting being with Gabriel and Dean’s blood always sang at the thought of their next adventure.  
  
Azrael showed Dean the peace death brought to weary souls, the grief and regret from lives cut short. Showed Dean how death made every birth all the more precious. How every shining new creation was filled to the brim with hope and untapped potential. Dean wept with every last breath the Blood took and laughed tears of joy with every celebration of life. It was humbling and overwhelming; Dean trembled with anticipation and fear every time Azrael came for him.  
  
Despite all the sights and wonders Dean saw with the rest of the Angels, it was Castiel he looked forward to seeing the most every night. With Castiel, Dean could share himself, tell him all the interesting things he saw in his mundane life, how his little brother ‘Saw’ that they were having cherry pie for tomorrow’s dinner and how Dean wished Castiel could try it sometime.   
  
It was Castiel who comforted him whenever he was unhappy and who held such an unwavering faith in Dean that Dean had no choice but to hold faith in himself because Dean would sooner die than let Castiel down.  
  
Each time they met, they’d groom each others wings, healing the little scratches and hurts daily life inflicted on them, straightened crooked feathers and soothed the aches of still growing bones.   
  
And Dean always listened attentively when Castiel shared stories of what he did in Heaven, how he was training in battle tactics and strategy, how Castiel raced Uriel and Balthazar to the nearest star and won.   
  
Other times, they’d lie curled around each other, sheltering one another with their wings, basking in the warmth of their grace and the knowledge that they were loved, echoed multifold through the humming, golden connection they shared with their brothers and sisters.  
  
Castiel was Dean’s best friend and Dean couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t love Castiel.


	8. A subtle quaver in our souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #24 Shiver

Whenever Sammy was sulking, Dean stayed close to his beloved younger brother, his only younger brother and patiently cajoled him out of his brooding. Whether it be by merciless teasing or bodily dragging Sam outside into the fresh air and going for a mad sprint in the long grass meadows or playing hide and seek within the forest.

Needless to say, Dean kept even closer when Sammy was bewildered and hurt by the cold sneering of their uncles, aunts, cousins and elders, shunned for reasons Sammy couldn’t understand. And the times Sammy pouted ferociously at his textbooks always inevitably lead to Dean studying along side Sammy. Reading and rereading every passage until Sammy’s eyes lit up in sudden understanding.

Whenever Mary felt sad, Dean picked wild bluebells and left them on the kitchen table. He’d always be overjoyed when she twirled them between her fingers with a smile and kept smiling for the rest of the day.

Whenever John came home in a dark mood, Dean left him interestingly shaped seeds he picked, a broken off piece of talon from a harpy he found lying on the ground. Odd bits and pieces that seemed to make John less irritable and more content to eat slower at dinner and share stories of his time stationed at the High King’s guard where he’d met Mary and fallen head over heels in love for the garrison captain.

But John was often in a foul mood and it inevitably led to John finding Dean high up in a pine tree trying to reach a particular pine cone he took a liking to. Already irritated by the coven’s snubs and malicious words, the sudden grip of fear around John’s heart boiled over into blind rage and unkind, frantic shouts. John never quite noticed how Dean had started, nearly over balancing, too busy cursing out his useless, stupid boy. Any Fallen knew better than to tempt fate, that he should keep his damned feet firmly on the ground before he fell and cracked his skull open.

Then, dragged back home, pine cone forgotten and smashed to pieces unnoticed beneath John’s foot, Dean was given such a hiding that every time he glanced up a tall tree or looked down from high above, he couldn't prevent the desperate fear that ached in the scars of his back and wings.


	9. Your fear’s such a frightful thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #04 Monster 
> 
> Warning: prejudice, ableism
> 
> I'm a terrible person, this was honestly supposed to be posted ages ago, like over a year ago. I don't know how I missed this one. So...sorry about that?

“I don’t know what to say,” Missouri told Missus Winchester finally. She looked at both their anxious too perfect, pretty features and had to look away from the boy, focusing on the mother. “Your boy ain’t Fallen that’s for sure.”

Missus Winchester was a crushing presence of despair, fear and anger at the confirmation that had tormented the Winchester family for seven years. Missouri gazed steadfastly on the woman’s crumpled expression, shying away from the sharp prickle of unease the nearness the boy brought her.

The boy, Dean, with his sad green eyes and beautiful solemn face. The way Missouri’s skin crawled whenever the boy looked at her, intent and curious, the blank nothingness, the void of thought and emotion whenever she concentrated at him, scared her. No other Mundane had ever felt like this little seven year old boy here, but neither had there ever been a powerless Fallen.

There was something very vulnerable about the boy, in the slope of his hunched defensive shoulders, his golden hair that curled a little at the ends and his vibrant eyes, huge and guarded, weary in his pale beautiful face, the soft full lipped curve of his mouth and the long, thick delicate lashes. 

If he were any other boy, Missouri would want to sweep him up in an engulfing hug, because there was just something so fundamentally broken and hurting about him. The boy tugged on her heartstrings, made her conscience twinge but she also couldn’t stop the shudder of revulsion that wracked through her.

It didn’t matter how pretty Dean was on the outside, not when he the hollow emptiness inside rang damningly. 

Missouri just wanted the boy gone, this boy who unnerved her in the sanctity of her own house. “Sorry, Missus Winchester,” she said regretfully.

“There really isn’t anything?” Missus Winchester asked, her eyes painfully bright.

Missouri really was sorry to dash what was left of the poor woman’s hopes but she still said, “There really ain’t nothing in your boy. He’s empty as a bucket with a hole.”

There was that unnerving prickle of awareness again, but Missouri refused to look at the boy. “It’s best you be going now,” Missouri said gently. And it really was. It just wasn’t done for Mundanes to mingle with the rest of the folk. Dean was…lesser. Best be off before the streets filled with more people.

Missus Winchester pulled herself together visibly. “Yes, of course,” Missus Winchester agreed, her green eyes still suspiciously bright. Her fine boned slender fingered hands clenched at the fabric of her skirts, knuckles white and the sharp edge of her grief almost palatable, before she smoothed out the wrinkles and shook off the tense anger in the bearing of her stance. 

Missus Winchester was all grace and quiet dignity again, like the lady she was brought up as in the Campbell bloodline. No longer a mother, but a warrior to be feared. “Thank you for your time, Madame Mosely. And your discretion,” she said with a tiny glance at her son who’d also risen to his feet.

“It was no trouble,” Missouri murmured back, barely hiding the shudder that traveled through her spine as Dean passed by her.

Missus Winchester didn’t even look back to see if her son followed her out the door, but Dean cast a furtive glance back. Missouri’s heart lurched slightly at the boy’s expression, unable to suppress the pangs of pity that stirred unbidden for the boy. Dean’s life would be hard now that his status was confirmed. Still, she gladly shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief now that Missus Winchester and her disconcerting boy were gone.


	10. Forgive our transgressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #13 Omen
> 
> Warning: Mentions of filicide.

Dean stood just beyond the partially open doorway, hiding in the shadows that the door cast. He clenched his hands and made himself listen and feel, because sometimes adults lied. And their words contradicted by what they felt inside. 

Like how John always said Sammy was a trouble-making rascal who asked too many questions but whose soul glowed with pride and love. And how Mary told John to stop with his comments about how he married the most beautiful and wonderful woman in the world, but her heart was so happy he did despite her protests.

Little white lies that didn’t hurt. Not truly. Dean knew this. He did. Though he didn’t get why they just didn’t say what they meant. It just made everything needlessly complicated and messy. Dean’s wings rustled and he glanced back at them cautiously even though John and Mary could neither see nor hear them.

Dean bit his lip and focused on the furiously bright pulses of emotion John and Mary were radiating.

“He shouldn’t be around Sam,” John said. “He’s Wrong.”

“Hush, John. What are you saying?” Mary said. “That’s your son you’re talking about.”

“Enough already. We can’t turn a blind eye to what he is anymore,” John said tiredly. “Just being near him feels disgusting. No matter how hard we hope or pray, Dean isn’t going to change. If he really had power, he’d have been showing signs like Sam since birth.”

“He’s just a late developer,” Mary said desperately. “It’ll start manifesting soon.”

“When?” John demanded. “He can’t cast the simplest of spells. And we’ve done everything to help him. But it’s useless if there’s nothing there in the first place. Already people have advised me to think perhaps Dean’s a changeling and that we’ve offended the Fairfolk unknowingly.” He exhaled nosily.

There was a rustle of clothing, and the soft jangle of Mary’s charm bracelet. John was a snarl of prickly emotions, the thick disappointment and shame broiling like the bitter sour tang of snapberries. 

Mary was more subdued, a mellow note of sorrow and simmering resentment.

“He can’t protect himself like this. He’s a liability, Mary. When his status becomes widely know, every hearth witch, vampire and other filth will want to bleed such powerless Fallen.”

There was a faint sob, tearful and aching with pain. Dean heard John step forward, his shoes scuffing the floor and Mary’s bracelet jangled again.

Mary’s words were muffled, but Dean felt the undercurrent of resentment flare up, misery tingeing her tone. “How did this even happen? Our Firstborn.”

“The rest of the coven, they feel uneasy. They think he’s a warning and we should heed them before it’s too late,” John said softly.

A frozen blankness permeated the air even as John’s emotions shifted anxiously.

“What? John what?” Mary asked and her bracelet rattled violently and there were heavy sudden footsteps and the screech of the table legs dragging across the floor.

“They want us to cull him.”

“John, no!” Mary’s cry was shrill, horrified. “John,” Mary said unsteadily. “Tell me, did you – ”

“I said I’d think about it,” John said stiffly. Dean flinched back from the surge of rage and protectiveness. “What else could I say? Do you really want to protect him at the expense of Sam? He’s a liability, if he places Sam in danger…”

“I swear, if you lay a hand on Dean, so help me, I won’t spare you,” Mary spat. “He’s your son, your own flesh and blood.”

“He might as well not be,” John said. The bitterness in his voice stung Dean’s skin. “He’s lacking in everything that defines who the Fallen are, he’s something entirely different.”

“John,” Mary said reproachfully, but didn’t deny it.

“His head always up in the clouds, I can never tell what he’s thinking. If he’s thinking at all.”

Mary sighed, her exhaustion a gaping hollow in the air. “I wish you wouldn’t say such things. Let me at least try one more thing, there’s this Human psychic I’ve heard about…”

Unseen and unnoticed, Dean closed his eyes.


	11. Our hearts and voices resound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #25. Holy

Hallelu. Hallelu

Brothers and Sisters, come quick. Join us in song. The Great Creator has finally blessed us with a new brother. Hallelu. Hallelu.

The Angels were singing, dazzling and delighted in their rejoicing. The skies resonated with their praise. It had been too long since another had joined the brethren.

Let us welcome our new brother.

He is different. He sleeps. Why does he sleep still?

He’s so tiny, so bright and warm. He is different. He sleeps. He is ours.

Hallelu. Hallelu.

We’ve waited for centuries. We can wait a little longer to welcome him into the world.

 

Dean, spread your wings. Come soar with us.


	12. Your delight shines and burns so bright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #30 Fire

Michael kept a firm grip on the fledgling’s thin shoulder as he steered them through the unruly forest undergrowth surrounding the hillsides. 

“Are we there yet, Michael?” Dean said, his wings twitching and rustling eagerly. “Can I look now?”

“I should send you to Anael to brush up on your virtues,” Michael threatened half-heartedly even as Dean made several woeful, pitable sounds. Immediately Michael melted, and wanted to cuddle the little fledgling until Dean stopped feeling sad despite knowing Dean had absolutely no issue following Anael like a lost duckling. Michael was determined to reduce the time Gabriel spent with Dean no matter how much his little brothers would whine. Really, Gabriel should know better than to be such a terrible influence on Dean.

As they drew close to the scorched clearing past the forest by the hill, Michael removed the geas, and smiled as Dean blinked rapidly in the sunlight, adjusting to his restored sight. “We’re visiting one of our distant relatives, it’s not often we see them out and about. You need to be on your best behaviour now,” Michael paused; slightly bemused by the way Dean’s head bobbled up and down, green eyes wide with earnestness, “- because Aepyceros may be the baby of her family, much like you, but her temper runs quite hot.”

Michael cocked an eyebrow at Dean and as one, they turned and found themselves facing a great, black, scaled beast the same size as the hill it was napping contentedly against. The beast was striking under the blaze of the noon sun, all gleaming black scales, and fearsome spines rising up along the ridge of beast’s back. The sharp, tapered tips peeked over the crest of the hill and shone like star fire when they caught sun light at the right angles. 

Michael had grown up with some of Aepyceros’ elder siblings, but seeing any one of them was just as awe-inspiring as the first time he’d ever laid eyes on them.

“It’s a dragon!” Dean whispered loudly, knowing he had to keep quiet but too excited to actually keep his voice down. He bounced up and down, pointing, wings spread all aquiver with delight. “It’s a DRAGON!”

Smiling fondly, even as Michael pushed the excitable fledgling’s hand down, he said, “Hush, I don’t think you’ll want to wake her. She might decide to gobble you up as her breakfast.”

Dean’s mouth gaped open, momentarily shocked speechless. Blinking hugely up at Michael, Dean said, “Really?” He turned back to the dragon, admiring the deep rumbles of the snoozing dragon, and the puffs of smoke snorted out by the huge black beast. Too curious for his own good, Dean couldn’t help but drift closer, peering at the metallic sheen of the black scales, the silver tipped claws and wings. 

Dean had gotten a little too close when a glowing dark red eye blinked open, and he tumbled back onto his butt in surprise. But the dragon only yawned, revealing wickedly pointed fangs that were almost the height Dean was, and flexed its claws in an oddly feline manner.

“Whoa,” Dean breathed, still sitting on the ground. 

There was an old cunning intelligence in the dragon’s eye as it focused on Dean when he began inching closer again. She puffed a plume of smoke at Dean, and the cloud enveloped him entirely before she slowly shut her eyes again, and restarted her noisy snores.

Dean sneezed, and basically face planted onto the dragon’s snout before Michael could shout a warning. But the dragon continued to snooze despite the Angel fledgling snuggling her nose. 

“She likes you,” Michael was pleased to say and subsided with a relieved breath when the dragon made no indication of frying Dean into a crisp. Michael shook his head, exasperated by Dean’s starry eyed expression. Most dragons were tolerant of Angel fledglings, but not to the extent where they allowed a fledgling to cling against their snout. But perhaps it was also because none of the other fledglings had been brave enough or rather, foolish enough to make a nosedive at a fire-breathing temperamental dragon. “Maybe she thinks you’re a particularly ugly baby dragon with odd fluffy growth and took pity on you.”

Dean gave Michael the best outraged expression he’d ever seen from his siblings.

“Then, if I’m a baby, she’s a baby! You said so! I remember!” The dragon Dean was hugging gave a snort and Dean puffed up, exclaiming, “See she agrees with me, isn’t Apey- Apishe-”

“Aepyceros,” Michael interrupted helpfully, but couldn’t shake slightly feeling of alarm creeping up on him..

It seemed Dean didn’t hear, and stubbornly continued on a little louder, “Isn’t Baby just the best?”

“Aepyceros,” Michael corrected, still hopeful that the dragon might not hold a grudge for the way he’d introduced her. 

Dean stared Michael straight in the eye and said, “Baby,” with an air of finality and looked incredibly pleased with himself.

With a growl, and thinking of the indignity he would suffer with plucking out singed feathers in his near future, Michael grabbed the insolent fledgling and knuckled at Dean’s head, "C'mere, you little brat. This is the thanks I get?" And he gleefully ignored Dean's shrieks of laughter and cries of mercy and Aepyceros’ deep rumbling snores of contented slumber behind them.


	13. Every step, chaos awakens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For spn_30snapshots #19 Energy

Very rarely did Dean forgo sleep, he missed his other family too much but Winter Solstice was special. It was one of the few occasions where all the Fallen gathered together in celebration and remembrance of their beginning and to pay their respects and burn their offering of thanks to their ancestors and the Creator.

Every year approaching winter solstice, Dean’s parents worked especially hard managing the sudden influx of weapon and food shortage. John Winchester would often take Dean and Sammy along to the forge. He would have his sons sorting odd pieces of nail and usable iron while he labored away at the billows and tempered blades and shaped the glowing red barrels of guns with Mister Colt.

Mary Winchester was always busy during this time, called in to renegotiate safe passage in the sacred hunting grounds of the wild fae lords. That was where the harts grew the strongest and fastest, and those wily old fae lords knew it all too well.

While the Fallen held themselves above participating in the Dark Hunt, claiming it as a practice too wild and feral for their tastes, many in their coven were still drawn into peripheral activities. This year’s solstice activities were especially busy with the much anticipated Dark Hunt.

The hunts were always held on the last day of winter, but this year’s hunt would be held after the longest and last winter part of the 56 year cycle of seasons. Everyone was eager to see to the end of the seven year winter and the beginnings of the seven year summer. And this year, Sammy was old enough for Dean to bring along.

 *

“Come on,” Dean whispered, already dressed and shaking Sammy’s shoulder, then hauling him out of bed even before his brother’s eyes blinked open.

“Is it morning already?” Sammy mumbled. “Where’s the sun?”

“You barely even slept, how would it be morning?” Dean hissed, exasperated. Besides, the sun didn’t rise at all on the Winter Solstice, why else would it be called the Dark Hunt? A half asleep Sammy sure said some silly things sometimes. “Now hands out!”

Sammy grumbled sleepily, rubbing at his eyes but he lifted his arms obediently enough for Dean to tug an extra sweater over him with minimal fuss. He looked a little cranky and tired, but Dean ignored it. They were going to be late!

Briskly, Dean swapped out the rest of their sleeping clothes for their itchy woolen tunic and trousers and slipped their charmed, flat, slate fire stones into their pockets. It immediately brought much welcomed warmth to their clothes.

Dean threw Sammy’s leather cloak over his brother’s shoulders and hustled him over to the window. The floorboards creaked ominously.

They both froze, straining for the slightest sound. But Dean couldn’t hear any sign of their parents coming to look in on them. Their home wasn’t that big, though the walls were thick and sturdy built from bricks fired in their father’s forge and insulated with charms and runes their grandmother crafted.

Letting out a shaky breath, feathers puffed out in agitation, Dean returned to herding Sammy to the window. Visibly dubious, Sammy opened the latch and peered out, only to flinch back into his cloak at the sudden wash of icy air. Dean could taste the sharp bite of frost even in his teeth, the frigid air cutting through their thick winter clothes and burning all the way down into his lungs.

“Where are we going?” Sammy looked marginally more awake now that he’d been blasted by the thoroughly unwelcome cold weather. He turned back to the direction of his bed, as if drawn by Pan’s pipe itself.

“We’re going to be late,” Dean huffed, nimbly swinging a leg over the window sill, sending a puff of snowflakes into the air. “Come on.”

“Mom’s going to kill us.” Sammy leaned out, watching Dean pick his way down the wooden lattice work and ever green leafy fronds of wisteria flourishing under their mother’s stern supervision. Sammy winced at the sight of the incriminating flower blossoms littering the snow below.

Dean let go, falling the last foot or so, wings flaring for balance and he landed with a muffled thump. Dean looked up at his brother’s anxious face, giving him the evil eye, jerking his head impatiently. Sammy bit his lip, head disappearing for a moment before a leg swung over and he scrambled over the ledge, clinging to the window.

“Close the window!” Dean hissed. “And just don’t look down.”

There was an audible swallow from above Dean’s head, and he could almost see the moment Sammy gathered his courage to lean back to do something. Dean craned his neck and spotted Sammy breaking off a leafy vine. He wedged it between the window and the frame then determinedly kept his head straight during his journey back to the ground, sticking close to lattice.

Dean huffed, blowing air onto his fingers as he scrubbed them together and watched Sammy’s descent carefully, ready to dart forward at the first sign of wobbling.

“You big baby,” Dean grinned, ruffling Sammy’s hair when his brother’s knees buckled slightly back on the frosted grass. “That wasn’t too hard was it?”

“It’s cold,” Sammy said petulantly, grumbling. He spat out a few stray leaves that had made its way determinedly into his mouth and batted at Dean’s hand when he tried to help. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?”

Grinning so hard his face hurt, Dean knew his expression was wild, but didn’t care, “We’re going on a hunt!”

 *

They stopped briefly in their journey, puffing out fine white mists as they rested. The wind was picking up and little flakes of snow were spiraling down, melting on their skin and lashes. Sammy’s cheeks were already pink from the night’s chill, visible in the full moon that hung luminous and low in the sky. Frowning slightly, Dean fixed up Sammy’s cloak, adjusting the heavy silver pin, and almost pricked his finger on the points of the solar flare pentagram design, breathing a little sigh of relief when there was no wound because it was bad form to shed bled before the hunt had even started.

Dean clung tightly on Sammy’s tiny hand as he led the way through the forest. After what felt like forever, the first howl sounded in the distance, followed closely by another and then another, merging into a cascade of sound, the baying of hounds and the thundering of hooves.

Sammy started visibly and pressed closer to Dean. “W-werewolves?” Sammy asked, his voice hushed and anxious, barely audible in the cacophony.

Tightening his hand reassuringly around Sammy’s, Dean started tugging him along towards all the commotion faster with Sammy following along reluctantly. “Use their proper name, Sammy. And they’re just signaling the start of the hunt. Now hurry up or we’re going to miss it!”

When they reached it, Sammy stopped abruptly. “I thought you said there weren’t any werewolves!” he said, sounding betrayed. “And there’re also centaurs! With spears! Dean!”

“Huh?” Dean said, distracted, practically bouncing in place. “What? Of course there are! It’s the hunt!”

Sammy gaped at him. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, “Is this the Wild Hunt? Did you really bring us to the Wild Hunt?”

Dean cocked his head at Sammy. “Yes, what other hunt would it be?”

Sammy let out a squeak and quickly slapped his hand over his mouth when several werewolves eyed them speculatively. “You’re crazy and the best big brother ever!” he whispered quickly, words tumbling over each other in his excitement.

They beamed at each other even as Dean huffed, dragging Sammy over to knuckle his fluffy head. “Was that ever in question?”

They fell in line with the clamouring pack, brimming with anticipation, nerves running high, waiting for the starting horn as the moon climbed higher in the wintry sky. As the moon neared the peak, the Erlking arrived, melting out of the frosty darkness with his personage, his Elves, huge grizzly white mountain lions. The other fair and duskfolk, a frightening array of vampires, harpies, wights and beansidhe followed as the rearguard.

From the corner of Dean’s eye, he caught the trailing ends of a fluttering black cloak. Reapers. Dean dipped his head respectfully, receiving similar nods of greeting. He looked up to see the Erlking staring at him, a weighted, assessing stare. Dean’s heart jolted in surprise, his wings flaring out. Dean held his breath but the Erlking only held his gaze for a moment longer, the corner of his pale mouth lifting before he turned his attention away, a clear acknowledgment and dismissal.

Dean was squeezing Sammy’s hand anxiously when the Erlking raised his amber horn and blew.

Everything trembled as a thunderous peal of sound rolled through the forest, rushing past the trees to echo endlessly through the shadowy valleys and plains. It was the rumbling start of an avalanche, the roar of a waterfall, the snarl of the earth splitting in half. Dean could feel it reverberating deep in his bones, his ears ringing and teeth aching at the intensity.

Around them, their dark hunt-mates raised their voices, and they joined in, the lone, terrible sound building and swelling into a great battle-cry. A clear declaration and warning of their intent, of their threat, that anyone who fell into their path was fair game.

“I don’t want to wait another seven years when we get there and find out that we missed it because you were too slow.”

They were running through the forest, swift and surefooted after years spent exploring and familiarizing themselves in the woods around their home. Yelling into the night, sounds of everyone’s declaration, raw and throbbing and alive, Dean and Sam ducked under low hanging branches, chasing after the luminous golden banners of the Erlking’s entourage and the great thunderous drumming of hoof beats of the prized Hart’s sly and relentless run that shook the ground and showered branches and evergreen leaves broken by its ebony antlers.

Their surroundings were a dark smear, the chill air burning in their lungs and Dean could taste the magic simmering in the air, the sharp dry taste of alder wood and barley flooding his mouth and the whirling blizzard of snowflakes blistering his fingertips and ears. He breathed it in, the creeping ice searing his throat and lungs, the heart-stopping beat of the Dark Hunt’s magic grasping its prey –

Dean breathed out, fighting and chasing back, hunting back and the magic’s hold broke under the rush of air and life blood pumping in Dean’s body, caught in the push and pull of the hunt.

They chased the beating pulse of the golden hart across the frozen grasslands into the icy forest, taking back the land from the harsh depths of Winter, and with every yard the hunt crossed, life returned to the frozen barren land, warm blood spilling from scrapes and wicked arrows whistling through frigid air.

They were the dark hunt that chased the prize of life. They were the wildness bringing bloody chaos into the frozen world.

In their footsteps, they led a blazing trail of sunrise into the bitter cold of winter. The breath of spring followed in their wake.


End file.
